


Tuesday Mid-Afternoon

by rufeepeach



Series: Time Of Day [11]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Time of Day 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 13:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle is caught in a storm without a coat, and Mr Gold's shop is the only one that's open. He helps her to warm up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesday Mid-Afternoon

They weren’t supposed to see each other today.  
  
Today is a Tuesday, and they don’t meet on Tuesdays.  
  
Wednesdays, and Saturdays. That’s it. These are the rules they made to keep everything quiet.  
  
But it’s throwing it down, absolutely pouring with rain, and she can’t help it if every shop but his has battened down the hatches and closed its shutters from the hurricane. She didn’t even know they had hurricanes in Maine: she is rapidly being proven wrong.  
  
So she runs down the street, hair and dress and coat all clinging to her, and finds Mr Gold’s shop still open, although the man himself seems rapidly in the process of amending that.  
  
“Belle!” he cries in surprise, as she bursts into his shop and slams the door behind her.  
  
She breathes hard, soaked and freezing and thankful for the still, calm, dry air after the horrors of the outside, “Yeah, hi.”  
  
“What’re you-” he stops, finally takes in the state of her clothing. Which isn’t hiding anything at all, her sundress stuck against every inch of her skin, and she’d feel a little more modest if she weren’t so used to him seeing her in various states of undress by now. They’ve been sneaking around and having this affair for months; she has nothing to hide from him. Still, it’s rather funny how his brain dies when he sees her in wet clothing, “What’re you doing here?”  
  
She shrugs, slips off her wet coat and throws it over the counter, stretches, enjoys the feeling of his eyes on her. His lust is always a nice little ego boost, and she could do with a little warming up, “Yours is the only shop open in this weather: I couldn’t run another step without drowning.”  
  
“I see,” he murmurs, when he seems to have regained his composure, and she turns to lean against the counter as he comes to meet her, “It did rather take us by surprise, didn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah...” she’s getting a little fuddled by his proximity, truth be told - does he really have to smell so good? - and the fact that they haven’t seen each other in a whole week.   
  
He’s been busy these last two meet days, helping the Sheriff with something. Belle isn’t jealous, or possessive, of course not: he isn’t her boyfriend, or her husband, they can’t even go out in public. If he wants to screw Emma Swan, he can go right ahead.  
  
She hasn’t slept with anyone but him since she broke off her engagement a year ago.  
  
But that’s just because her dad doesn’t want her dating, and she’s stuck with him basically until she gets married and moves in with her husband. And that’ll never happen while she’s still totally in love with Gold, and he can make her skin all hot and tight with just a dark eyed look and a smile.   
  
He doesn’t know she loves him.  
  
He doesn’t love her, no matter how much she might wish otherwise. He can screw around all he likes, and she won’t say a word. It’s enough for him to indulge her twice a week; it’s enough to know what it feels like to have his touch on her bare skin, and her name on his lips.  
  
“There was no other place willing to take in a drenched woman in a hurricane?” he shakes his head, “What is this world coming to?”  
  
She’s an imposition, she knows that. She doesn’t belong in his shop, his world, although he waltzes into hers all the time. There isn’t a room of her home where she doesn’t get a shiver remembering the sensation of him slamming her against the bathroom wall; spreading her out on the kitchen table and running his tongue over her breasts; fucking her senseless in her father’s bed.  
  
He claims he prefers them at his house, in the security of knowing her father cannot catch them. She knows better: he likes the feeling they might get caught, likes to remember that she’s forbidden and yet he devours her anyway.  
  
Without that game, she wonders, would he still stick around?  
  
She doesn’t want to find out. Things are good now, as they are, even with the boundaries and her stupid, little girl insecurity.  
  
“I don’t know,” she says, and when did her voice lower in pitch and volume? “But they’re all closed.”  
  
“I am too,” he replies, and somehow he’s stood right in front of her, hands on the counter behind her so she’s trapped there by his body, and her wet dress front is pressed against his suit, “Closed for business.”   
  
His voice is that low, knee-weakening growl he does so well, the one that promises dark and dirty things in the middle of the night, that makes her pulse race and her skin flush. Apparently he doesn’t mind the imposition; apparently he’s fine with her running into his shop, soaked to the skin and dripping on him.  
  
She supposes that a hurricane is a special circumstance; she supposes that lust outweighs any annoyance at his silly little plaything wandering in when she wasn’t invited.  
  
“I’m going to get your clothes all wet.” she murmurs, and he hums agreement against her lips.   
  
“I think I can manage.” He kisses her slowly, deeply, hands cupping her soaked face, and she tries not to press herself against him, tries not to cling on for fear of getting rainwater all over him as well.  
  
But she does kiss him back, slants her lips under his and languidly explores his mouth, seeks out the little sensitive places that make him groan. She holds her cold hands around his face, fanning her fingers to caress his cheek bones, the long strands of hair around his temples, the smooth line of his jaw.  
  
They break apart for air, and despite her best efforts his suit is dotted with large, dark damp patches from its contact with her soaked sundress. She looks down and giggles at the state of him, “I told you.”  
  
“Hmm,” he looks down as well, smiles a little ruefully, “Maybe we’d be better off getting you into some dryer clothes.”  
  
He takes her hand, and leads her through the shop, to the stairs at the back where she’s never been, “Where’re we going?”  
  
He looks back at her, “I keep an apartment above the shop,” he replies, “For storage mostly, but sometimes I stay here overnight. I have some spare clothes...”  
  
He trails off; she is running her hand up and down his arm, beaming with the smile she knows turned his legs to water, the one she flashes whenever she has a particularly filthy thought about him and wants him to know.  
  
“I don’t think I need them,” she practically  _ purrs _ at him, and can’t miss the way his eyes darken, the little cough caught in his throat, “Do you?”  
  
“You need to warm up, dear,” he smirks, and there, that wicked little smile, catching her drift and running with it far and fast, “I think that’s our first priority.”  
  
“Lead the way.” His grip on her hand tightens, and he almost pulls her up the stairs, spinning her at the top on the landing to kiss her again, fierce and rough, all teeth and tongue, leaving her moaning and breathless. It’s ridiculous how hot and bothered he can make her with just a smile, with just the press of his mouth against hers.  
  
Then he’s dragging her into what appears to be the bedroom, although the bed itself is hidden behind boxes of things, and spinning her around, with a growled little command to “Hold still, dearie, or you’ll have to sort yourself out.” His words force a breathless little giggle from her lips, which turns to a mewling little moan as he scrapes his teeth against her bare shoulder.  
  
“Now, lets get you out of these wet things, shall we?” he murmurs against her skin, and she nods, holding still as he fiddles with the zipper, drawing it down slowly and following the bared line of her spine with one fingernail.  
  
She shivers, and he smirks against her, his hand sliding under the soaked fabric to cup her ass and rubbing in slow circles, the sensation magnified by the dampness of her skin.  
  
“You’re icy cold, dear,” he whispers, “Frozen to the bone.”  
  
“I got caught in the rain,” she whimpers, as if it’s not obvious, as if he doesn’t already know, “I forgot my umbrella.”  
  
“Indeed.” he snickers, “You’ll warm up better without this,” he plucks at the soaked fabric with one hand, and she nods, shakily, lifting her arms a little so that he can peel the dress from her body. She shivers as the cold cloth leaves her skin, and hears it fall to the ground with a wet little splat.  
  
His hands are all over her, and if she was cold before then she’s burning now, his fingers skimming the sides of her breasts, cupping her waist, brushing her shoulders, his thumbs sweeping the indents of her shoulder blades. His hands explore every inch of her torso, and yet never seem to touch her anywhere real, anywhere where she needs him so badly right now. And he knows it, of course he does, and he tortures her anyway.  
  
If his evil streak weren’t so much of the reason she loves him, she’d be cursing his guts right now.  
  
“I think,” he says, as he finally leans forward, as his hands come to cup her breasts and her back meets his chest. She gasps, her head, falling back against his shoulder, “I think we need to clean you off. Warm you up good and proper.”  
  
She spins in his arms and catches him by surprise, crushing her lips against his and tangling her cold hands in his hair, “Yes,” she breathes, when she breaks away, “Shower?”  
  
He nods, without a word, and she wonders how it is that he can tease and torture her mercilessly with fingers and tongue and voice - and really, his voice is the worst of all; the things that man can do with just a few choice words are downright _filthy_ \- and yet lose all brain function from just a kiss and a smile.  
  
It’s adorable, really, how much he lets himself go with her.  
  
Which, she supposes, is the reason he likes her: she’s the one person he never has to pretend to, the one person who enjoys breaking him apart and will put him back together when she’s done. She is a stress reliever, and if that is her value, then she will enjoy every moment of it.  
  
The hurricane rages outside, and she can hear it through the shutters, rain lashing on the windowpanes, wind rattling through the streets.  
  
But he doesn’t seem to notice, and he takes both of her hands, leads her through the apartment to the bathroom, and lets go of her so she can help him undress. She tugs on his tie and practically rips the buttons off of his shirt in her haste to have him as naked as she, to feel every inch of his bare skin flush against hers. His pants fall in a puddle around his ankles as her hands sweep across his chest; she teases his nipples with her nails just to hear him groan and arch into her hands.  
  
They stumble together into the shower cubicle, and only under the jets of hot water does he deign to remove her soaked bra and panties, and throw them over the top to join his own clothing.  
  
She giggles, and he grins, a genuinely happy smile that lights up his whole face. He looks years younger when he smiles like that, and he holds her to him for a moment, in a brief and all-too-rare embrace.  
  
“Feeling warmer yet?” he asks, voice muffled against her hair.  
  
“Yes,” she whispers back, and cranes her head up, kissing him softly, gently, almost lovingly under the water.  
  
His hands rest on her hips, and he presses her against the tiles slowly, the cold of the wall a sharp and pleasurable contrast to the heat of the water and the warmth of his wet and naked skin. He brushes one hand down her cheek, thumb caressing her lower lip, and then down further, over her collarbone, tracing the outline of her breast and cupping its weight in his palm.  
  
He rubs his thumb against her nipple, and it hardens to a small point as she reaches up to crash her mouth against his once more, kissing him frantically, stroking her tongue against his in time with his thumb’s maddening little circles.  
  
His hand drifts lower, to brush against her sopping curls, and the sensation of his fingertips and the warm water cascading around them against her pussy makes her cry out, a breathy little open-mouthed scream against his lips. He hoists her up against the wall, and she wraps her legs around his hips, his cock hard and hot against her entrance, teasing her to distraction.  
  
“Warm enough, dearie?” he murmurs, flicking his fingers right against her clit, smirking when she mewls and keens.  
  
“Burning up,” she pants back, “Set me on fire, already.”  
  
He grins at that invitation, and thrusts deep inside her with one smooth stroke, catching her throat with his teeth, as she throws her head back and screams. He sucks the water from her skin, following the droplets with his tongue as he fucks her slowly, deep and hard and not nearly fast enough.  
  
The water falling all around them adds a new dimension to every brush of his clever fingers, and it feels as if he’s touching her everywhere, as if he’s inside her, and all over her and teasing every inch of skin on her body, every sensitive little spot that makes her gasp and buck her hips into him. She has to cry out at the intensity of the pleasure coiling inside her, rushing through every blood vessel, every nerve ending.  
  
She is incandescent, burning for him, and his slow thrusts drive her insane until she’s begging, lips by his ear, babbling a litany of filthy nonsense, “Oh, god, yes,  _ Gold _ , fuck yes, please, please, faster, harder, yes yes  _ fuck _ , there, right  _ there _ ...”  
  
He increases his pace at her commands, snarling against her skin as he pounds into her, drawing long and breathless screams from her lips, his finger rubbing her clit hard once, twice, three times until she’s careening over the edge. She keens and sobs like she’s dying, clinging onto his soaked shoulders for dear life, the water falling into her open mouth and rushing all over her, the combination of his fingers on her clit and cock in her pussy and the water covering the pair of them drawing out her pleasure to a painful degree.  
  
He’s still going as she comes down, riding the aftershocks with a wide smile, and as her head clears she leans in to bite his earlobe, to whisper, “Fuck, yes, perfect, go on, yes, come for me now, go on, come  _ now _ .”  
  
He groans, a long and agonised sound, and with one final deep and jarring thrust he comes, biting her neck to keep from shouting, his fingers digging into her hips with blunt nails, hard enough to bruise.  
  
They cling to each other for a long moment under the water, boneless and limp, and Belle knows she could happily stay that way forever, bathed in afterglow and warm water, wrapped around the man she loves as if she never has to let go.  
  
But she giggles as he slips out of her, and helps her back to her feet. “I don’t know about cleaning up...” she smiles, biting her lip, “But I’m certainly warmer.”  
  
“Good,” he smirks, holds her close, and she is _l_ _oving_ the amount of sheer physical contact she’s getting from him today, the feeling of him surrounding her, holding her against him as if he wants her near all the time, as if she is something dear and precious to him.  
  
“What brought that on, anyway?” she asks, when they’ve stumbled from the bathroom to the bedroom and are curled in towels on his spare bed, in the room with all the boxes, “I mean, we don’t usually... you usually need more persuading.”  
  
He smiles down at her, caught somewhere between embarrassment and bemusement, “The dress, of course,” he raises his eyebrows as if its obvious, “Dearie, you walked into my shop with your dress stuck to you like it had been sprayed on. Do you know what you do to me?”  
  
“I have some idea,” she smirks, and pulls him in for one more kiss.  
  
He smiles as if she’s adorable, and a little bit thick, but she doesn’t argue. She can barely form words when he’s so happy, and the rain outside is almost soothing, this room theirs alone where they can pretend to be lovers and not just sexual partners. The world outside is going to hell and all she can do is snuggle further into his chest, and doze off to the rhythm of his heartbeat, the sensation of being so close to him    
  
“No, you don’t.” he mutters against her hair, but she’s half asleep and near comatose with bliss, and she probably imagined it.


End file.
